The Potter

Within the cobbled back streets of The town where he was born, The potter walks the lonely path Amidst the breaking dawn, Unto his work shop he arrives To start another day, Puts on the light and then he dons His apron stained with clay. His arms are strong his chest so broad A mighty man is he, And yet his fingers nimble and So blessed with artistry, With greying beard and tresses long His face the years now show, For lined with age he bears the strain Of times so long ago. He opens wide the kiln door where He fired his work last night, Now cooled and so he checks each one To see that all is right, No cracks or flaws, no chips or scuffs Perfection to his eye, Then placed upon the shelf to glaze He stirs the barreled dye. With hands so skilled he takes some clay And spots it on the wheel, That slowly turns then gathers speed So deftly he does feel, His work that he then shapes into A vase he makes with ease, For made a thousand times or more And always seem to please. He carries on he does not rest Until his work is done, While through his dirty window pane Now shines the morning sun, Some children watch him working yet He doesn't seem to mind, Just waves and smiles then carries on He musn't fall behind. All day long he hardly stops It's all he has in life, His home is cold and empty since He lost his dearest wife, And so he strives from break of dawn Until the sun does set, And keeps his mind upon his job To help him to forget. When evening comes his work complete So ends another day, He yields a sigh and then removes His apron stained with clay, Turns off the light and as he leaves He locks his battered door, Until tomorrow when again He shall return once more.